Fevers and Freckles
by MyWaywardWinchester
Summary: When Dean falls ill, Castiel rushes to his side more than willing to nurse him back to health. However, Cass is knew at aiding a human and ends up finding a new, unexpected way to heal him. Eventual Destiel. Complete.


Rain showered fortuitously over the vast greenery that served as Lawrence. Dean slammed his car door and wrapped his flannel tighter around his quavering body, already ruing the drive to his hometown. His car broke down and he was practically surrounded by endless plateau. He noted Sam's absence with a tinge of resentment. It was bad enough his mind occasionally wandered to his mom, but to work a case five miles outside his home was practically torment and hardly bearable. He couldn't have possibly dragged Sam into this case; the last thing he needed was to be jogged of his worst nightmares. The last time they worked a case in Kansas was to ward off an evil entity, arguably the same one that threatened her life.  
He shook his head, dispelling his mind of the past; he had to get to the coroner's office before they closed, even if it meant trudging three miles through torrential rain. A few steps into the trek and the water had already managed to seep through his rented tux. "Son of a bitch," he cursed; a habit that always seemed to aid his troubled mind although he knew it didn't change his predicament.  
He carried on in the upmost wayward matter: digging his boots further into the gravel and removing the jacket, seeing as it was no use sopping wet. His eyelashes began to heavy from the rain, nearly rendering him blind. He used his wrist to wipe away the water furiously, which did no good since every inch of his body was soaked. His throat began to choke him from the inside. He fell to the ground with a loud thump, the palms of his hands sliding and scraping on the hard rock below. Absentmindedly he was grasping his neck as his throat began to swell. He eventually gave up trying to fight the battle and fell completely face-first, pummeling into the ground. Everything fell into an abyss.

* * *

Cass scrutinized Dean as he slept. A small smile tugged at his lips as he imagined Dean's surprise when he would wake up to the angel's presence. The two had been busy with their lines of work lately, and their time together had suffered terribly.  
Everything about Dean aroused him. Every muscle in his body wanted to wake him to witness his emerald eyes sweeping over him; he wanted to see his tousled hair and tell him it looked absolutely perfect, and quite particularly, framed his face well; he wanted to be there when he awoke from a feverish nightmare to comfort and provide security, but for now, counting every freckle spread indiscriminately across his olive skin would do just fine.  
_Dean_, he thought fondly, his aqua eyes scrutinizing the hunter, _if only you could see how peaceful you look when you dream.  
_ Dean wriggled his nose as if dispelling a bad smell. Then his eyes began to flutter underneath his lids and his whole body began to quiver manically with his rapid breathing; the nightmares were kicking in. Cass treaded lightly to his side, stripping him of his covers so that he wouldn't secrete. It was about now he longed for his healing powers to ease a troubled Dean though he knew it probably wouldn't change his conscious state of mind. Dean's eyes shot wide open and he flew forward, nearly sending Cass to stumbling in the opposite direction. His breathing decelerated when his eyes fell on Cass's in the pastel moonlight that surrounded them. "Cass?" Cass nodded leisurely. He did not want to startle Dean more by pouncing on him the first chance he got.  
"You were having a nightmare," he confirmed, as if recapping his quandary. Dean raked his hand over his face lethargically before pushing the covers completely aside.  
"What are you doing here?" he asked jadedly, leaning against the bedpost. His struggle was eminent; he moaned in displeasure trying to heave upright.  
"I wanted to watch over you." Outside his indifferent facade, relief washed over him like a flood after a thundering storm. He had no idea what he would've done with himself if Dean hadn't survived; he didn't even want to envision such a thought. Dean was the only mundane he had ever truly associated with. Dean understood the hardships he faced, his pain, and most importantly, just how far the profundity of his charity stretched for him. Without Dean, his life wasn't worth fighting for. "Do you need anything?" he asked attentively.  
"An explanation would be nice," he said rationally, leaning his broad stature against the bedpost. He glanced down. "Where are my clothes?"  
Cass retracted, slightly hesitant about his response. "I found you laying in the cold; you caught ammonia," he said, "If I were to leave you in your dank undergarments, the ammonia would exacerbate." Dean faltered as well, his hands grasping for an invisible object underneath the covers.  
"What about my knife?"  
"I stashed it safety away in the trunk arsenal."  
"How did, where did you—?" Dean grimaced, suddenly more concerned about his weapon. "Now I definitely feel naked," he pouted.  
"I could retrieve it for you so long as it provides you solace."  
Dean shook off his request and raked a hand through his disheveled hair. "Nevermind, where's Sam?" he inquired peering around the isolated room.  
"I informed him of your health status, he should be here shortly," he said bluntly before moving to sit at the edge of the bed. He swathed his index finger around a loose cotton string and traced it meticulously around the repeating diamond pattern hemmed into the covers. Dean's eyes idly followed his finger for a few seconds more before he used every muscle in his body to precariously pull his weight forward to face Cass. Cass glanced up, and, seeing Dean's apparent struggle, shot to his side to stop him in his attempt halfway.  
"Cass, I'm fine, you don't have to babysit me," he insisted, grunting in slight annoyance. He knew Dean well; he would shrug off his agony and feign his wellness. He knew better than anyone, however, that he was far from well both physically and mentally and he would have to put his activities to a cessation for as long as possible.  
"Don't fight me, Dean. Lay back down, you need rest," Cass urged, soothing the newly crinkled sheets.  
"I've endured Hell. For Christ's sake, I think I manage to take care of a cold," Dean argued.  
Cass narrowed his eyes and smarted right back at him. "Oh, pardon me; I forgot that you pulled your own body out of the Pit."  
"That's not the point—"  
"Yes, it is, Dean," he bit back, growing impatient with Dean's belligerent attitude, "you may be strong but do you honestly think you were strong enough to withstand Hell?"  
"Cass, I—"  
"And how much have I had to withstand? What can I do if you won't even accept my help?"  
"Cass—"  
"Let me tell you something, Dean Winchester: your modesty is far surpassing reality—" Dean stopped him short by wrapping his calloused fingers around the nape of Cass's neck and pulling him into his lips. Cass surrendered into the bittersweet musk of Dean's aftershave and the surprisingly saccharine taste on his lips. He kissed him back, slowly pushing his tongue inside his mouth and ran his hands down his sides, his skin warm to the touch. Cass pressed himself closer to Dean's body. His heart hammered in his chest and reverberated onto his own.  
Cass pulled him away curiously when he felt a strange wetness on his cheeks. Dean let out a wobbly sigh and let his hands fall just above his ass. He leaned his forehead against Cass's as Cass began to run his thumbs under the enflamed area of which the water fell from. This only made him sob harder and only made Cass kiss him again, feeling it was the only way he could truly provide for Dean. Dean returned the action, though his lips were trembling faintly, and grabbed a hold of the angel's coat again, caressing him on top of him. Cass returned his hands to Dean's back, stroking in small soft circles. Dean peeled off his fleece and tossed it aside; finding it a coarse nuisance on his fingers. He lifted the covers above him, motioning the angel inside. Cass crawled in carefully and wrapped himself around his taut stomach. He barely touched his pubic hairs when Dean placed his hands over his, pulling him against his arc so that he fit perfectly inside Cass's arms. The two men succumbed to the sensation of each other's physiques. Cass buried his face in Dean's neck, kissing him softly, his warm breath reverberating on the nape of his neck, and they both fell silent. The warmth radiating off the hunter's smooth skin was almost diverting his attention from Dean's words as they slipped off his tongue:  
"I'm sorry."  
Cass was too immersed in Dean. He was perfect despite his doubts. "I know."  
Soon he heard soft, steady breathing escaping the human. He shifted his head only to find Dean fast asleep. He smiled softly, pressing his lips to his neck one last time and enclosing him tighter. As long as Dean found consolation in dreaming, counting freckles would do just fine.


End file.
